


the tavern

by gingergenower



Series: the garrison [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Post 3x10 Spoilers kinda, a lil thing I'm not sure what genre, it's a moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergenower/pseuds/gingergenower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inside the tavern, Constance gets unwanted attention. Aramis helps out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the tavern

In his time in the garrison, Aramis learned to expect Constance would throw something strange at all of the musketeers, at one time or another. Sometimes, she would demand to take his horse, or borrow his gun, or use him as a thug in a difficult situation. It became habit to merely follow her and do whatever command she gave him. He had once questioned her, but her explanation was long and complicated, but well-reasoned and thoughtful, and it was more sensible to just trust her.

He waltzed into the tavern, knowing he was early for the time he and d’Artagnan agreed to and that the new captaincy made him permanently late to social occasions. Aramis started towards his bar, the tavern loud and boisterous with shouting and drunken jokes, but he was caught off-guard by a pair of arms throwing themselves around his neck.

Recognising Constance’s curly hair, he hugged her back, frowning at her enthusiasm.

“Constance-” 

“I told a man at the bar my husband was coming. Will you pretend to be my husband?” she said, drawing away but keeping her hands on his waist.

He reached down, taking her hand and kissing it. “It would be my pleasure, madame.”

The lines around her eyes smoothed, worry disappearing with his hands guiding her in front of him to best keep an eye on her. He slipped his hand in hers, squeezing it, and whispering in her ear.

“Tell me if you are uncomfortable with anything I do.”

She giggled, as though he’d something flirtatious. “To your left, red shirt.”  
Aramis relaxed, leaning forward to order their drinks and leaning around, looking. His scope saw the man immediately- wide and tall, he would overshadow Constance, and he realised she hadn’t the belt with her dagger on. His eyes met Aramis’, and he shoved his way through his friends, starting towards them. 

Aramis passed Constance her drink, and the corner of her mouth twitched. It was Aramis who’d taught her broken glass was as good a weapon in a bar fight as any.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, winking at Constance. 

Aramis leant sideways onto the bar, smile playing with the corners of his mouth while Constance wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, sir.”

“We haven’t,” the man said, grinning and turning to Aramis. “So, she says her husband’s a musketeer.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So you’re not?”

“I was,” Aramis said. He hooked an arm around Constance’s waist, pulling her in. “I took a new position recently, but once a musketeer…”

“The captain still thinks highly of you,” Constance said, putting a hand on his chest and gazing up at him. “Although he thinks your swordplay might be out of practice. I think he’s thinking of asking you to practice sparring with him.”

“My _swordplay_ ,” Aramis said, resting on the word to make Constance blush, “is not something he needs to concern himself with.”

The man cleared his throat. Aramis turned back, but Constance let her gaze linger on Aramis for a few moments more, uninterested in whatever the man had to say.

“Why would you be in the garrison?”

Aramis nearly rolled his eyes. The man was as stupid as he as uninformed, because the news that a woman had as much influence and involvement in the musketeers was as old as Constance’s second marriage.

Turning her slightly, Aramis pointed at her upper right arm. Embroidered into the shoulder of her dress, the musketeer fleur-de-lis glimmered gold in the candlelight. Several dresses of hers had different placements of it, but Aramis remembered this one because d’Artagnan told him that this one was his favourite, because it acknowledged her equal status with the rest of the men. 

“She’s a musketeer.”

“I work in the garrison,” Constance said, frowning at him.

“D’Artagnan says you’re a musketeer. You shouldn’t argue with the captain,” Aramis said, watching her over his glass as he took a drink.

“D’Artagnan is-” 

She cut herself off, shaking her head and turning away from both of them, but Aramis was quite enjoying himself; teasing her was certainly an exercise in entertainment.

“Women can’t be musketeers.”

“I assure you, she’s not a man,” Aramis said, laughing at the man. He turned to Constance. “How often do you deal with this kind of disrespect?”

Constance thought, frowning and staring away. “Not often, now… a few times a month?”

“I’m not-”

“You’re disrespecting her, you’re disrespecting her marriage, and you’re disrespecting the garrison. Hold this?”

Aramis held out his drink. Without thinking, the man took it, and Aramis punched him so hard in the face he fell flat on his back. 

The barman leaned over, squinting down at the dazed man. “Fighting is not allowed in here.”

“I don’t consider anything where only one punch is thrown to be a fight,” Aramis said, straightening his hat and asking for another drink.

Constance rubbed her temples with her fingers, and two men dragged their bloodied-nosed friend off, glaring at Aramis. He gave them a cheerful wave, leading Constance to the table they’d vacated.

“Is there a reason you’ve got your hands all over my wife, Aramis?”

Constance beamed, turning around and throwing herself at d’Artagnan, this time not acting. He kissed her hair, eyebrow raised at Aramis. 

“I feared Madame d’Artagnan was lonely. You were late,” Aramis said. “I felt obliged to comfort her in her time of need.”

Constance swatted his arm, and Aramis grinned. 

D’Artagnan shook his head, stealing her drink and throwing it down his throat.

“Long day?”

“Stressful. Shall I get another round?”

Aramis patted him on the arm. “It’s on me.” Downing his own drink, he left Constance to explain what happened.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I have a life outside writing musketeer fanfiction. Writing Once Upon a Time fanfiction, for example.


End file.
